His Familiar Reality
by GhostInTheBAU
Summary: He's stopped sweating altogether now. That's probably the most worrisome issue at the moment. Heat stroke has definitely arrived. And as if he wasn't suffering enough, his mind begins to mock him, running through everything he should be doing in order to not die.


_**Warnings:** Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Altered Mental States, Angst, Hurt/Comfort_

 _ **Rating:** TEEN AND UP_

 _Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid_

 _This was written in response to a picture prompt writing challenge. If you'd like to see the pic, you can go to this story on my other site, A O 3, under the same name._

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 **HIS FAMILIAR REALITY**

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" _ **Sometimes I think people take reality for granted."**_

 _ **\- Francesca Zappia**_

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He doesn't recall how he got here or how long it's been since he's seen another living soul, but it feels like ages. He doesn't know why he's wearing his sleep clothes—an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts—in the middle of nowhere, either. He doesn't remember much of anything, really, except the present moment.

All he does know is that he's got to keep moving.

He has to find help, find someone, find water, or at least a little bit of shade. The likelihood of finding any of those things, of course, is very slim because all he can see in every direction is flat, barren desert and cold, gray sky. Which is funny, considering it's sweltering. He never realized how quiet the desert could be until now. It's as silent as a tomb, yet out in the open air, and it sends a ironically eerie chill down his spine. Maybe this would be _his_ tomb. It's definitely a good probability...he already feels the telltale signs of heat stroke setting in. It's just a matter of time, really.

He shakes his head; he can't afford to think like that. Not right now. He has things he still needs to do, people he needs to see...his mom, his friends, Aaron. Where did Aaron go?

He needs to keep moving.

The sun beats down on him relentlessly as he concentrates on putting one bleeding, aching foot out in front of the other. The clay beneath his bare feet is dry and cracked, and it scorches and bites with every step he takes. He has no idea where his shoes are.

He's just wandering at this point...aimless, exhausted, confused. He's starting to feel slightly disoriented and dizzy. He doubles over in pain as his stomach starts to brutally cramp up.

 _Lack of salt from excessive sweating. A sports drink can help to replenish electrolytes,_ his mind helpfully supplies.

His skin is burnt, red and cracking—much like the ground below him—and he can practically smell his flesh cooking in the merciless heat. His mouth is dry, his tongue swollen, and every time he swallows, shards of glass scrape down his throat.

He's stopped sweating altogether now. That's probably the most worrisome issue at the moment. His head is pounding against his skull and he feels like he may vomit at any minute. There's nothing in his stomach, though, so he doesn't know how that'll play out.

He stops walking when the dizziness gets worse. The muscles in his arms and legs spasm and twitch and he feels his temperature rising. His heart hammers frantically in his chest.

 _Complete failure of your body's heat-regulating system_.

The world is tilting on it's axis, causing the ground to come fully and rapidly into high-definition just a second before his body makes contact with it. Sand slips into his mouth, gritty and bitter, and he tries to cough, but his body wretches into agonizing dry heaves instead. Heat stroke has definitely arrived. And as if he wasn't suffering enough, his mind begins to mock him, running through everything he should be doing in order to _not die_.

 _Find shade, lie down, elevate your feet, loosen your clothing and drink water. Pour some water on your skin, even! Don't worry about saving it now, just douse yourself in it. Place cool compresses to your armpits and groin, that will help lower your overall body temperature._

He wishes his brain would stop telling him to do things that he obviously can't do and just accept the fact that he's going to die here. He knows it...it seems inevitable now. He feels himself drifting and knows that if he goes to sleep here he won't wake up. It'll be the end, and maybe that's okay.

Maybe he's okay with that.

He doesn't know what happens after death, but he knows he doesn't want to be _here_ anymore. He knows he doesn't want to be alone any longer.

Slowly, he lets his eyes close, blocking out the bright sun and the gray sky until all he sees is black. He feels his body relax and his heart rate slow as it rushes through his ears. All his pain begins to dissipate and then he's floating in cool wind. It feels calm and serene, familiar even. He hears a voice echo in the back of his mind, a sound he barely remembers and hardly recognizes.

" _Spencer?"_

It's gentle and kind. Strict, yet soft at the same time...

It's familiar.

" _Can you hear me?"_

It's coaxing him back from somewhere far away.

It's been ages since he's heard that beautiful velvet tone, hasn't it?

" _Baby, come on now."_

His skin doesn't feel so hot now, his mouth's not so dry.

Did he die? Is this what happens after?

Where is he?

"Hm?" he hums in question. It's really all the strength he can muster.

"Spence, look at me."

The voice is louder. It sounds like it's right in front of him now. He feels hands on his arms, big and strong and firm. He doesn't know where he is, or what's going on. It's all too dark. He hates the dark. He pulls back, tries to get away from the hands. He screams, but it sounds so far away that it could have just been a whimper.

"Hey hey hey...you're okay, you're safe. Spencer, Baby, _please_ just open your eyes for me."

His brows furrow as the grip on his arms tighten, stopping his retreat. He strains to do what the voice asks because what choice does he have? His heavy lids flutter, then finally open, and he sees dark, concerned eyes staring back at him...

They're familiar.

Those eyes belong to the man standing in front of him, holding him in place, keeping him still. A stern face leans in closer to his, but he notices a soft, gentle tenderness hidden behind the stoic facade...

It's familiar.

That warmth is something not many people get to see, that much he does know. The man's raven hair juts out in all directions...it's messier than he usually allows it. There's dark circles under the man's eyes; and it looks like he's been awake for days.

He's confused again.

"A-Aaron?" he stammers, and looks around the room he's in, completely bewildered by the surroundings. He's clearly not in the desert anymore, and he's very thankful for that. But he doesn't know how he got _here_. He's in a house...

It's familiar.

He's in his house... _their_ house. He looks down, realizes he's still wearing the shirt and shorts he wore in the desert, then lets out a tremendous sigh of relief. "I was so lost, Aaron," he gazes up at his lover and smiles brightly, "But you found me. I thought I was gonna die. How did you find me?"

He sees how he's being looked at, and his joy vanishes in an instant. Aaron's chocolate eyes are filled with fear and anguish and pain. A deep sinking sorrow quickly follows, and his stomach plummets to the floor as icy tendrils of anxiety snake around his chest and _squeeze_. He can't breathe. He's shaking, furiously blinking away moisture from his eyes, trying to clear his head. The hands on his arms move to his back and pull him into a tight hug as fingers begin to card through his hair. He swallows thickly, his mind racing through every detail—every minute piece of information his eyes are seeing—and he starts to make all the necessary connections...starts coming to the obvious conclusions.

He's at home, _their_ home. He's not in the desert. There are absolutely no signs of sun burn or dehydration over his body, no cracked lips or peeling skin, no sand in his hair or his mouth. He's not experiencing any signs or symptoms of heat stroke, or any trauma at all for that matter.

So, hallucinations then.

 _Perceptions in the absence of an external stimulus that are accompanied by an extremely compelling sense of their reality._

His stomach drops again; he feels like he's suffocating. His eyes sting with the revelation that he's experiencing auditory, visual and tactile hallucinations, along with a bit of olfactory and gustatory.

 _Might as well have a whole set._

He really shouldn't be surprised...

It's familiar.

It hadn't felt like a hallucination, though; it wasn't false to him. It was real. It had been so _real_.

"It—It wasn't real?" he whispers, shakes his head and buries it into Aaron's neck, "But it _was_ real, Aaron. It was so, so _real!_ "

"Oh god, Baby, I know. I know it was. Shhh, it's gonna be alright. I'm right here," Aaron softly soothes, holding him a little tighter as his voice begins to tremble, "Come on, Love. We need to get you into bed. Things will be better after you've gotten some sleep, okay?"

He allows himself to be directed into the bedroom, _their_ bedroom. It's warm and comforting and it smells just like Aaron. There's a nightlight plugged into the wall; books are on the bedside table, at his side of the bed. Several prescription pill bottles sit on top of the dresser...

It's familiar.

How could he have forgotten where he was? His heart speeds up and he feels his knees buckle; he's falling. Strong arms catch him and ease him to the edge of the bed. He sits, his body going wherever it's directed. Aaron takes his hand, opens it and drops something small into his palm. He glances up and sees him holding a glass of water. When did Aaron leave to get water?

"I need you to take those, Spence."

He looks down at his hand, sees the two little round tablets he's holding. One orange and one blue. The Thorazine, then. And Valium. He remembers what they are. He hadn't taken them lately, had he?

 _Thorazine for the acute psychotic episode you just had and Valium for the anxiety. You know this. It's nothing new,_ his mind once again informs.

He swallows the medication without even flinching. He's done this so many times before...

It's familiar.

It's learned.

It's robotic.

He lays down and Aaron climbs up behind him, pulls his back against his chest and holds him close. He feels warm and safe in the embrace. Aaron's other hand comes up and gently combs through his hair.

There are tears running down his face but he can't remember when he'd started crying. It doesn't really matter now. His body quakes as he lets go, sobbing into the pillow underneath his head.

"Shhh," Aaron whispers in his ear, "You're okay, Spencer. I'm right here. You're safe. You're home." He stops, for just a moment, and his voice breaks. Then it sounds like Aaron's crying right along with him, "You're not lost anymore, Baby. I promise, you're right here with me."

It's _familiar_.

"You're okay..."

It's _learned_.

"I'm right here..."

He remembers now.

"You're right here..."

Aaron's said these words to him before.

"You're safe..."

Said them often.

"I promise..."

Whenever he forgets where he is.

"You're home..."

He closes his eyes and allows Aaron's voice ground him in familiar reality.

"You're not lost..."

And he lets himself drift to sleep.

"You're okay now, Spencer..."

Because he's okay now.

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" _ **I didn't have the luxury of taking reality for granted. And I wouldn't say I hated people who did, because that's just about everyone. I didn't hate them. They didn't live in my world. But that never stopped me from wishing I lived in theirs."**_

 _ **\- Francesca Zappia**_

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 _Thank you for reading._


End file.
